


No Bloodless Feud

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cypriot civil war, Greek War of Independence, M/M, Turkey's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-28 00:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is related (but God alone is all-knowing, as well as all-wise, and almighty, and all-bountiful), that there was, in ancient times, a Nation of the Empire of Osman, possessing numerous troops, and guards, and servants, and domestic dependents...</p><p>Or, the Ottoman Empire tries his hand at parenting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Bloodless Feud

**Author's Note:**

> Time period: starts in the 1500s, ends in the 1970's.  
> The summary is adapted from the introduction to the 1001 Nights.
> 
>  
> 
> Written for [](http://cinderscape.livejournal.com/profile)[**cinderscape**](http://cinderscape.livejournal.com/) as part of the [](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/)**help_japan** auction.

It would figure, wouldn’t it, that this would be the second time he’s conquered a country and walked into the woman’s room to find her dead with a kid playing on the floor.

The Ottoman Empire looks at the bed to make sure that it really is Cyprus lying there instead of some servant who volunteered to die in her place. He remembers her face, though it’s clean now rather than smeared with blood from battle, and her hair is copper like the veins of ore in her soil. No mistake: the corpse on the bed really is hers.

He rolls her off the bed onto the carpet, which won’t give as much, and cuts her head off to make sure; the spine gives him a bit of trouble, but nothing he’s not used to.

The kid watches him, playing with a small stone, turning it over and over in his palm.

“Who are you?” the kid asks.

“The Ottoman Empire,” he says, and reaches out an arm. “Come on, you’re with me now.”

“Why did you cut off Mommy’s head?”

“Because we weren’t getting along and she was dead anyway,” the Ottoman Empire says. He doesn’t know why chicks don’t like him.

 

 

 

Greece and Cyprus take to each other okay, though Greece is older physically and seems to act as Cyprus’s mentor, or whatever. Cyprus, for whatever reason, seems to think of the Ottoman Empire as his dad, which is stupid because although he wanted to the Ottoman Empire never actually fucked the old Cyprus, and anyway it doesn’t work like that.

But it’s kind of nice, having someone call him “Dad” and reach for his hand when they’re walking side by side down the halls. Greece sure as hell doesn’t do that.

The Ottoman Empire pretty much lets Cyprus do his own thing, with the Christianity, and asks for more in taxes. It works okay; he gets his money, and if Cyprus doesn’t like paying extra, then he could convert just fine.

One night, when the Ottoman Empire is doing some diplomatic reading, nothing much important, Cyprus opens the door to his office.

“What is it?” the Ottoman Empire asks.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Cyprus says, rubbing at one eye. The Ottoman Empire’s been yelling at bureaucrats all day, and dinner was a disaster even before Greece upended his plate in the middle of the meal and then refused to clean it up.

(The Ottoman Empire threw him out of the room. He hasn’t decided yet if he’ll lock the brat into his room for a few days to teach him a lesson, or just serve him kitchen garbage for the next public meal instead.)

Cyprus isn’t nearly as much trouble, even though he has his moments of childish stubbornness.

“Well, come on, then,” the Ottoman Empire says. There’s a couch in the side of the room for napping, if he needs it. If he were inclined to truthfulness he might say it’s a remnant of when Greece was more tractable.

Cyprus goes and sits on the couch. The Ottoman Empire goes over with his documents to sit next to him, and continues to read as a small body curls up next to him. Cyprus is still very young physically, not even ten in human years, with small hands and clumsy feet and riotous curls, and when his breathing evens out into small sniffing inhales and exhales, the Ottoman Empire reaches down to rest his left hand on the boy’s head, feeling the warmth of him.

He keeps reading.

 

 

 

 

Greece grows ever more angry and sullen, sleeping to escape his own reality with its shouting and broken pottery, spilled food and hunger, until one day it is everything, full-out battles, and across those years of seeking his independence Greece becomes a man.

The Ottoman Empire doesn’t know what to make of him, this man who was once a boy he thought he knew, whose silence now is darker and deeper than he remembered.

For all the poetry, the Ottoman Empire himself has never really wanted little boys for sex. He likes, when he can get it, women with double-handful breasts and asses to hold onto, and when he can’t, men with broad shoulders and thick-muscled legs.

Even the resentment is a turn-on, somehow.

 

 

 

“I want to go with Dad,” Cyprus says one night.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“No,” Cyprus says. “Not you. Him.”

“As the Hun Empire would have said: over your dead body,” the Ottoman Empire says, knocking him about the head a bit to make it stick.

 

 

 

Cyprus gets what he asks for after the Ottoman Empire goes to war with Britain. Not quite, not even close, but the kind of getting that a genie would give, mischief and trickery, ending with the wisher even more miserable than if he hadn’t wished.

Cyprus doesn’t cry when he carries his bags towards England’s ship. And the Ottoman Empire doesn’t cry, but if he had then no one would see anyway, with the mask. He doesn’t anyway. Their kind live a long time, and even if he’s losing bits of himself, being nibbled away at, no one would bother to kill Cyprus. It’s not that kind of world anymore, where little provinces are worth killing. It’s better to keep them as trophies. Cyprus even looks it, a pretty young thing with bright bright hair and wide eyes. England likes to keep trophies.

 

 

 

The Great War ruins him. He fights (another) war with Greece and doesn’t do a few things that his neighbors will later claim he did.

He changes his name, his government. Wears his clothing differently. Adopts the fedora after the fez is banned. Dreams of secularism and industry and, at least for himself, peace.

 

 

 

“I’m going to kill you,” Greece mutters over the silence in the night as they wait, pretending to sleep, for the tides so Turkey’s supply ships can leave.

“Allies tried that a generation ago and couldn’t make it stick.” He adjusts his stiff shoulder on the rock beneath him.

“Not your government, or your people’s identity.” Greece’s clothing rustles as he shifts. He’s probably cold; he’s using his jacket as a pillow. “Your blood and sinew.”

“Only Nation’s head I’ve ever cut off was Cyprus.”

Greece doesn’t move.

Turkey lets him fear the worst, then says, “The old one. She was already dead.”

The rain patters on the ruins of the roof. Turkey lets his shoulder joint pop out of place.

“I knew,” Greece starts, slowly, “you meant her.” He sighs. “Britain wouldn’t have let you.”

“And you were always the wicked one. I wouldn’t have cut him to bits if I didn’t do it to you.”

They are human enough that if they are maimed it only heals a little better than a mortal would. Loss of limbs is permanent, so it doesn’t happen often, though he’s not sure what’s true of the rumors he’s been hearing about Finland. Certainly his own foreskin didn’t grow back, from when he was circumcised.

“Grand tradition, revenge,” Greece murmurs.

“Shoulda had your balls chopped off when you were still young and cute.”

He almost-sees Greece twitch in the darkness.

“You know,” Greece says, “they all thought you kept me as a catamite.”

Turkey doesn’t reply to that. He knows that’s what the rest of Europe thought. They think all hate is ultimately about sex. For them, it probably is.

(It’s helpful that Turkey doesn’t hate Greece. Brat drives him crazy most days, but that’s not hate. Some days he wants to strangle the life out of him, but still. Different.)

 

 

 

Cyprus doesn’t call or write or anything to say that he’ll be leaving England soon. Turkey sends him a telegram: COME VISIT HOME STOP

He receives one back, not too much later: HAVE OWN HOUSE STOP WOULD RATHER BE WITH DAD ANYWAY STOP

Turkey spits something unprintable and anatomically improbable and throws the sheet of paper to the floor. Stalks out of the room. Halfway down the hall, he retraces his steps, picks it up and tucks it in his shirt.

He misses the feeling of holding Cyprus’s small body in his arms, so when Cyprus’s people start fighting in the streets, he comes to visit. With some of his people.

 

 

 

In Britain’s care, Cyprus has grown to be a teenager, his early delicateness beginning to yield to the beginning’s of a man’s strength. He will always be fine-featured, uncomfortably stretched between handsome and beautiful.

Turkey realizes after about two days that there are two boys living in Cyprus’s house, and only one of them is a redhead. The other is a very small child with dark eyes and hair, and the bones of his face remind Turkey of himself.

“Who’re you?” he asks, kneeling in front of the kid.

“I don’t have a name yet.”

“Oi,” Turkey calls out across the room to Cyprus. “Who’s this kid?”

“What kid?” Cyprus asks, then his eyes flick down. “Oh, him. He’ll disappear once you leave. He doesn’t really exist.”

Which is ridiculous; the kid’s clearly standing in the room, staring longingly at Cyprus.

“You exist to me,” Turkey says to the kid, whose eyes open wide in surprise. When he stands and offers his hand, the kid takes it. “I bet Cyprus won’t mind if you take the north wing of the house.”

“I mind,” Cyprus states flatly.

Turkey leans down and stage-whispers, “Don’t listen to him. I won’t let him hurt you.”

The kid’s eyes are wide-bright, hoping and hopeful. There’s no way Turkey could ignore that look, not from a kid who looks so much like him he could be his son.


End file.
